Carole Barkley The Morning After Jessica Bush In Retrospect Suzanne Frischkorn Sister C.R. Garza Ennui Ron Gibson, Jr. Pirouette David Johnson Love Poem James Lineberger You Know Who Your Father Is Heather Long Adagio Dorothy Doyle Mienko Shopping for Shoes Patty Mooney Poem For Maggie Kathleen Savino metaphor Jonathan Shipley June Bugs Richard Stevenson After the gulls Tim Wenzell What You've Let In
J. Dewey Mama Reads I can feel her listening for me, for the tin-can sound of my headphones or my breathing if Iím almost asleep. She's done this my entire life. Maybe she does it when I am not there, out of habit, the way she still brews an entire pot of coffee even though she drinks half a cup and leaves the rest to cool by the sink all day long. Something cold and black and thick waiting at the end of the day. Evan Palmer The Dung Beetle's Career Bailey was a Customer Service Representative. No man-in-the-street could be certain as to what that meant. A dull eyes-glazed-over "Oh" would be a typical response. They are legion with these vaporous titles. Do you provide high-level technical support to the companyís most valuable clients or do you clean urinals? Not sure I should shake your hand. C. R. Resetarits Ecomare They found him floating face up in one of the small ponds that made up his research empire. The expression on his face, wide-eyed, gaping, unuttered surprise, was said to be priceless--as was the image of the tadpoles and naiads that were grazing in the crumb-infused tangles of his beard. Andrew L. Wilson The Spider's House I wish I hated you more. I wish I desired you less. But I don't. The more I hate, the more I want. Isn't that Catullus? Who? She turned to me. The slim pale shoulder, the delicate breast. Catullus. You know. The Roman poet. In love with Lesbia. Hopeless.
Mary Rodriguez Feline Behavior
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